


Blood Colored Feathers

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AND A TINY BIT OF FLUFF, Angst, Avengers - Freeform, Avengers Family, Avengers oneshot, Gen, Mentioned Abuse, Mentioned suicide, Oneshot, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Winged Avengers, Wingfic, in case that’s a turn off, kinda depressing but it has a happy ending, that’s all i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Wings are a physical expression of a person’s soul. It’s impossible to lie about how you feel, because your wings will spell it out in painstaking detail.Tony refuses to let the world know exactly what he’s feeling, because that’s nobody’s business but his own.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 176





	Blood Colored Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, just wanted to let you know that this mentions abuse and suicide. It skims over it mostly, but it’s there so if that’s uncomfortable for you, or not something you want to read then maybe find another fic. If not, then enjoy :)

Tony was very young when he learned that wings were a curse. He was four, his father looming over him with the sour stench of alcohol on his breath. 

He grabbed Tony’s shoulder, squeezing far too tight in his drunkenness. Tony teared up from the pain, his wings stiffening. 

Howard shook Tony angrily. “Stark men are made of iron,” he slurred, “iron men don’ cry.” 

Tony tried to stay stoic like he was supposed to, but his maroon wings betrayed him. They drooped in fear, and Howard’s face twisted with rage. He slapped him across the face and threw him to the ground, roaring. His four-foot, muddy brown wings opened behind him, casting a shadow over his cowering son. He may have had a wingspan of only eight feet, but they seemed impossibly large to Tony.

Tony scurried away, running to his room and curling up on his bed. Wings were an expression of your soul, everyone knew that. It was impossible to hide your emotions, because your wings would always spell them out in lucid detail.

Tony had always been a genius, and even at four he knew that would make his life hell, so he decided to find a solution.

It took him almost a year, but he did it.

He wrangled all his emotions into a mental box, shutting them away. He could look in and see them happening, could passively note that _hey, I’m scared right now,_ but he was free to act like a man, like his father wanted.

It took him another year to perfect faking emotions. He could puff his wings up in anger, or twitch them in excitement. He was already a master of masks and performances, dancing to whatever tune his father wanted. He put on tiny, fitted suits and pasted on charming smiles, his wings doing exactly what he wanted. 

He wasn’t weak anymore, no one could turn his fickle emotions against him. 

He had control.

So why was Howard never proud? Tony would build things and put on performances and act out the emotions his dad wanted, but it was never enough. 

The circuit board he built before most kids could read was too clunky. The car he shaped out of scraps was a waste of metal, and his practiced, charming smile was ignored.

At the end of the day, he still curled up in his bed alone, the crimson reflections of his soul on his back gradually loosing their luster- feathers getting dull and dusty no matter how much he preened.

— — —

Howard sent Tony to boarding school when he was nine, despite his mother’s protests. He flew through the classes, skipping every other grade, but Howard never saw his accomplishments.

He was only as good as his mistakes, Tony learned. He was damaged goods, imperfect.

Tony entered high school at eleven, and made his first friend- a guy named Adrian. He was four years older than him, but didn’t beat him up in the halls like the other kids. They talked sometimes, about movies and girls and video games.

It was nice, to talk to someone who appreciated his performances, his porcelain emotions.

— — — 

Tony got a call the first day of Christmas break. It was Jarvis. He explained, apologetically, that his parents couldn’t make it that year. Tony pasted on his disappointed-but-not-crushed voice, and thanked Jarvis for telling him.

That night, he sat alone in the dark, clutching his well-worn captain America doll. Iron men don’t cry, he knew, and he hated himself for the damp spot on his hero’s head.

The next morning, he went out and bought feather oil for the first time. It wouldn’t do for a Stark to have dull feathers. 

— — —

The second time Tony lost his grip on his emotions was when he was thirteen. 

He knocked on the door of Adrian’s dorm, as he hadn’t been to class today and Tony was worried. There was no answer, and Tony opened the door.

He found Adrian. He was swinging gently from the ceiling, almost peaceful looking.

Tony was sick on the floor. He lost a lot of feathers that night.

— — —

The third time was when he was fifteen- he was going to attend MIT. His parents hadn’t shown up to his graduation, but he figured they had important things to do.

The call from the police was cold and clinical, and Tony appreciated that. He hated being pitied.

Tony drank through his parent’s funeral. It was easier that way.

— — —

In Afghanistan, Tony watched as strangers cut his chest open. The tiny corner of his mind not consumed by pain was thinking of the irony that he, the man who never really felt, now had a literal heart of metal.

Yinsen’s dying words echoed in Tony’s ears as he trudged through the desert, his dull, burgundy wings covered in new scars.

_Don’t waste your life, Stark_

And even as Tony tried to make up for the thousands of deaths on his shoulders, he lost many of his bloody feathers. 

They called him iron man. How apt.

— — —

Tony kept his wings perfectly still when he was arguing with Captain America. The good captain’s were bristling, spreading out and casting a shadow over him. Tony wasn’t seeing Roger’s stormy grey wings, though. He saw muddy brown ones in their place.

_Big man in a suit of armor, take that away, what are you?_

Tony kept his composure perfectly, face impassive as his hero tore his heart to shreds.

It’s not like he didn’t deserve it. 

When he got home from shawarma with the avengers, his mind lingered longer than usual on the prospect of following in Adrian’s footsteps.

— — —

The night when Tony lost control of his emotions for the fourth -and last- time wasn’t special at all. It was team movie night, and the Avengers were all sprawled out on beanbags with popcorn and donuts. 

Tony wasn’t surprised when Steve sat next to him instead of the others. He often helped Steve understand what was going on in movies, explaining the phrases and jokes under his breath. What did surprise him, though, was the way Steve slung his wing around Tony’s shoulders, then basically started cuddling him halfway through the movie.

Suddenly, somewhere deep inside him, a cobweb-covered box of emotions swelled and broke, and for the first time in forty years, Tony felt an emotion that wasn’t grief or anger. He could barely put a name to the powerful surge of good feelings that overcame him, but he thought it was joy.

Tony had been numb for so long that his wings started to shake, finally acting on their own after years of tight control. They jerked forward and engulfed Steve in a desperate hug.

Steve let out a startled laugh, and hugged him back. He didn’t mention the tears pooling in Tony’s eyes, or the way Tony clung on to him like he was the only thing keeping him afloat.

But Steve did start hugging Tony a lot more. And when Tony eventually confided in the team, he got nothing but support. His wings slowly became shiny again, his feather oil collecting dust under the bathroom sink.

It felt great.

Tony thought he hated his wings, and the emotions they symbolized, but this? This was wonderful.

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? I’d appreciate any and all feedback, so if you hated it, tell me why so maybe I can do better next time


End file.
